


On Duty

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This is something the Mayor enjoys from time to time. Javert doesn’t initiate it and he doesn’t encourage it, he simply allows it. The worst anyone could accuse him of is – Madeleine’s free hand lands on his hip and teases at his waistband - leniency.</i> M. Madeleine applies the right kind of pressure. Loosely based on <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=513313#t513313">this prompt</a> from the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Duty

Madeleine doesn’t rise from behind his desk when Javert arrives to make his report. He lifts his gaze from a stack of papers, nods as Javert takes his usual place near the centre of the room, and returns his attention to his work. The barest apology for taking up police time. Of all the mayor’s eccentricities, somehow this is the most infuriating. 

Javert widens his stance and places his hands behind his back. His suspicions about Madeleine may come to nothing, but he needs to maintain some distance until he’s satisfied himself one way or another. He values the ache in the backs of his thighs and the long stretch of minutes wasted beside the man’s desk. The waiting serves as a reminder of what they are to one another.

Madeleine has obviously been at work for some time. His coat is hung neatly away, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. A sheaf of papers is stacked on the desk. From his post, Javert can’t make out exactly what they are, but the stamp in the corner of each document marks the work out as factory business. 

"Just one moment, Inspector," Madeleine looks up, catching Javert’s sidelong glance. Javert snaps back to attention, slightly too late, and doesn’t turn his head when Madeleine gestures to an empty chair. "Please, make yourself comfortable." 

Javert fixes his eyes on the pale opposite wall of the mayor’s office and settles back onto his heels. They’ve been through this enough times, now, that Madeleine must know he won’t sake the seat. Madeleine doesn’t push the matter and returns his attention to his work. Silence stretches and fills the room, interrupted only by the scratch of the pen and the rustle of papers. Madeleine completes three forms by Javert’s count, taking his time and double checking each figure before signing the damned things. If he looks up again, Javert doesn’t see it. 

This isn’t such a trial, Javert thinks. He’s long suspected that Madeleine takes some perverse pleasure in keeping him waiting, and he’s accepted the fact that his meetings with the mayor will always be delayed in some manner. Javert steals a second glance at Madeleine out of the corner of his eye, taking in the strong forearm braced against the desk and the sun-weathered throat exposed by a loosened cravat. Madeleine’s skin is as much a contradiction as the rest of the man, and suspicion is in Javert’s nature. He allows his gaze to settle there for a moment before darting his focus back to the wall. Under his collar, his blood is already beginning to quicken. 

It would take more than a polite invitation to drive him from this post, he realises. The realisation is not one that he relishes. 

At the desk, Madeleine huffs under his breath, a small noise that could almost be a laugh. Javert keeps his eyes fixed on the wall, making a point of not looking even when he hears the mayor push his work aside and scrape back his chair. Madeleine’s approaching footsteps are heavy on the floor, and only when they’ve stopped, less than a foot away, does Javert raise his eyes to Madeleine’s.

"Thank you for your patience," the mayor spreads his hands and smiles. "I’m all yours."

_Yours._ The word sets something alight inside him, fierce and resolute. Javert’s already confirmed that there’s more to Madeleine than his generous deeds and his measured tone, but he needs something concrete. Something he can admit to outside the privacy of the factory office. He knows better than anyone in this town what the man is capable of. Yes, and the pounding of his heart confirms it. The mayor will certainly be his.

Until then, he’s willing to concede to Madeleine’s eccentricities.

"Inspector, I believe I asked you a question." Madeleine’s attention is fixed on him now. He’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of unkindness in his amusement. "Should I assume you’ve had an uneventful morning?" 

Javert dips his head in apology, even as he catches himself bristling. "Quiet, perhaps," he admits. "But a quiet morning is hardly an uneventful one." 

Madeleine’s eyebrow lifts, but he doesn't interrupt. Javert continues.

"The villain I have my eye on won’t strike in the daylight. This time is most wisely spent in preparation."

"Preparation?" 

Madeleine is pacing, as he sometimes does during these meetings. Javert tracks him with his eyes for as far as he can until the mayor is beyond his blind spot and out of his sight. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle as he hears the soft footfalls circling behind him, but Javert doesn’t turn his head. He presses on. 

"Gathering information. My men received a tip-off from a petty thief two hours ago. If the information pays off – and I’ve no doubt it will – we’ll bring in one of the town’s most powerful criminals by daybreak."

Somewhere behind him, he fancies that he hears Madeleine miss a step. It proves nothing, but he’ll turn the moment over in his head later on, examining it from every angle. The faltering step of a man who finds himself caught in a trap, he imagines. But he also catches himself hoping, absurdly, that he’s wrong. That the mayor’s surprise is nothing more than an honest man’s pride in an efficient police force. 

The thought discomforts him. He presses on.

"A con artist by the name of Caillard," he volunteers, offhanded, wishing he could watch Madeleine’s face and gauge his reaction. "He’s been operating under a false identity, duping members of society. We’ve had our eyes on him for six months now."

Behind him, Madeleine makes a contemplative sound, and Javert instinctively squares his shoulders.

"It was a pickpocket who tipped us off, monsieur. The kind that will always crumble under the right sort of pressure. Two of us cornered him in the marketplace this morning. He didn’t hold out for long before turning in one of his own." There’s a satisfaction in his voice that he makes no effort to suppress. It’s a boast and a warning all at once. "Be assured, Monsieur. Your town is in safe hands."

Under the hum of Javert’s pulse and the roar of the engines, Javert can hear a name, whispered in the back of his mind. A name he hasn’t heard spoken in ten years; one that he himself hasn’t dared to give voice to yet.

Madeleine takes another step closer, the warmth and breadth of him impossibly close. It’s all too familiar. Javert keeps both eyes on the bricks of the office wall and breathes hard through his nose, trembling tension keeping him upright.

This is a game the mayor hasn’t grown tired of yet. Over the months, Javert has learned to endure it. 

When Madeleine’s hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, Javert realises with a kind of horror that he’s been holding his breath in anticipation. He tries to force his breathing to even but it’s too late to hide his thumping under the weight of Madeleine’s palm. The knowledge stings, and drives his pulse even faster.

When Madeleine speaks, his voice is a fraction lower than usual. Dangerous enough to send an involuntary shiver down Javert’s back. "And the pickpocket?"

Javert draws his scattered thoughts together, but the best response he can manage is a questioning grunt.

"The pickpocket. In the marketplace this morning."

"He’s safe." Javert doesn’t make a sound as Madeleine’s hand fists in the wool of his jacket. The mayor’s sense of justice has always been misguided. "Under lock and key as we speak."

"You’ll release him," Madeleine says, his fist tightening.

"Certainly not," Javert bites out. "We do not make bargains with criminals."

He expects an argument. If not a reprimand then a halt to- to this business. It would almost be a relief; an excuse not to let things take their usual course. But the mayor’s grip on his coat is as firm as before, and apparently he’s willing to let the matter lie.

"So," Madeleine says. "You’re bringing in a con artist." 

The words are light, but there’s something dangerous behind them. The sound, Javert is sure, of his prey, cornered. But then there’s amusement in the man’s voice and his lips are brushing the skin behind Javert’s ear.

"I suppose congratulations are in order." 

Javert lets out a long, shuddering breath as his stomach lurches and his cock stirs in his trousers. There’s his answer.

This is something the mayor enjoys from time to time. Javert doesn’t initiate it and he doesn’t encourage it, he simply allows it. The worst anyone could accuse him of is – Madeleine’s free hand lands on his hip and teases at his waistband - leniency.

The hand holding his coat moves up to grasp the back of his neck, firm enough for Javert to feel the man’s restrained strength. And even as his senses take their leave, even as the voice in the back of his mind screams Valjean’s name and number and swears that this will be the death of him, Javert gives himself over. 

He keeps his eyes open because he knows that shutting them will be too much. The man has dogged his days and haunted his nights, and he knows the images that his mind will conjure up. It would be too much, and to let himself be pushed over the edge so quickly – with so little contact – would be a disgrace too far. 

Even now he feels himself shake under Madeleine’s grasp, and he prays silently for resolve.

_He must know_ , he thinks, and his thoughts are wild. _If he is Valjean then he must know that I would know him. That I would never allow him to-_

But allows it. And, because he allows it, he allows himself to believe that he is wrong. And that the hand at his collar is the hand of an honest man.

As though Madeleine has noticed his discomfort, he drags his palm across Javert’s hip, tracing unhurried patterns of sensation across Javert’s clothed stomach and side before dropping lower. Madeleine traces the full length of Javert’s erection through the heavy wool, drawing out a ragged breath from the man under his hands. A dark stain is seeping into the rich blue fabric. Javert’s jacket will cover it, but it won’t wash out. 

The mayor likes Javert’s uniform. He’s complimented it on many occasions. He enjoys seeing it defaced. 

For a moment, there is nothing but the warm pressure of Madeleine’s hand, and Javert presses up into it, disgracefully grateful for the relief. Then the hand on Javert’s neck is twisting a handful of his hair, yanking his head back and sideways.

"Unbutton your collar." The order is abrupt and Javert hesitates. He doesn’t normally participate in these- 

"Now, Inspector." The voice is sharp in his ear, and it is not Madeleine's. 

It only takes the smallest gesture. His hands move upwards almost of their own accord and he fumbles the fastenings open with numb fingers. And then the man’s free hand is up and pulling aside the wool, exposing his throat. It is so little, but even so it is almost too much.

Madeleine’s lips are as soft on his skin as his fingers are harsh in Javert’s hair. His breath comes in uneven gasps and now he allows himself to close his eyes and know the man for what he must be. This can only be Valjean’s mouth on his neck, he thinks as he loses focus and his hands drop, useless, to his sides. What honest man could be capable of this?

"Monsieur-" he doesn’t trust himself to say more without giving himself away. 

"I know." The man’s voice is guttural at his throat, and he can hear none of Madeleine’s kindness. "I could finish you here and now. You wouldn’t even need my hand, would you?"

Sharp teeth graze Javert’s skin, following the line of his neck down towards his chest, and the noise Javert makes is barely human. 

"Don’t," the man says, and Javert doesn’t need to be told what he mustn’t do. He nods a distracted assent as soft lips sooth the sting of the bite, kissing and sucking bruises against his collarbone. Javert doesn’t resist or pull away. He hears his stifled groans distantly and imagines himself choking.

And then, without warning, Madeleine is pulling back, and there’s nothing left but the tight grasp of his hand in Javert’s hair. The pain is still almost enough, but Javert hears himself whine in protest at the loss of the man’s mouth.

"The pickpocket, Javert," Madeleine’s voice holds none of its usual mercy, and the want in Javert’s belly mixes with a furious, burning shame at having been caught in such a trap. "You’ll release him."

"How dare you," Javert’s voice is shaking, rage and dismay boiling inside him. "To think the law can be bought like a cheap-"

He finds himself unable to finish the sentence. The grip in his hair is twisting his head at an unnatural angle. The room tilts somehow. The sound he makes sounds unbearably close to a sob. 

"I don’t need to ask, you know," the man says. The words are a promise and a gift. "I could order you to free him."

"You’d have to," Javert’s voice sounds desperate even to his own ears, but he tries for what authority he can. He will take what little dignity he can find in this situation. "I wouldn’t do it for less."

But Madeleine must hear it for the surrender it is, because he’s rewarded with a low, pleased rumble in the man’s chest. And then, with infinite kindness, Madeleine slides his hand back down his chest, closes on the aching heat between his legs and takes hold of him through the soaked cloth. 

"Very well, Javert," Madeleine’s lips trail kisses, along his jawline and Javert can barely stand the indignity. "Consider this a direct order."

It is enough. Javert chokes back a strangled groan as he comes, Madeleine’s soft mouth at his ear and Valjean’s firm hand in his hair. He jerks helplessly into the man’s hand, the two names clamouring against each other inside his head.

As he regains his breath, Javert realises that one of his hands has come up to clutch at Madeleine’s arm. He loosens his hold, thoughts returning to order as Madeleine unhands him. Madeleine wipes his damp palm on Javert’s thigh and returns to his desk. Javert, in his soiled uniform, takes a moment to recover his balance. 

He takes a long slow breath and reaches up to rebutton his collar. Under the circumstances – his mind in disorder, his uniform ruined – it seems a worthless gesture, but Javert takes some small amount of pride in it. 

"Will there be anything else, Monsieur?" he manages. 

Madeleine looks up, and seems to consider the question. Javert’s skin itches under the appraising gaze as the man’s eyes skim up and down his body, taking in the full measure of his debasement.

"No. I think that’s quite enough for one morning, don’t you?"

Javert knows a dismissal when he hears one, and, after making some small effort to tidy himself, heads for the door. Madeleine’s voice catches him as he reaches for the handle, "Javert."

"Monsieur?"

"The con artist. Best of luck with your investigation."

"We’ll bring him in, you can be sure of it." Javert should be ashamed of the swell of pride inside him, but he can’t resist taking what small comfort he can in moments like these. "Once our eye is fixed, we aren’t easily deterred."

"I don’t doubt it," the mayor says, and there’s something in his tone that Javert will spend more than a few hours considering. His eyes are back on his work before Javert can guess at his thoughts. "That will be all, thank you."

Javert leaves by the back exit.


End file.
